Woods and other celebrities deserve a measure of privacy

Thursday

The feeding frenzy over Tiger Woods' tiny run-in with a fire hydrant has taken voyeurism to new depths.

The feeding frenzy over Tiger Woods' tiny run-in with a fire hydrant has taken voyeurism to new depths.

Where was he going at 2:25 in the morning? Why wasn't he wearing shoes? Why was his wife smashing his Cadillac Escalade's window with a nine-iron?

Might we interrupt this terribly unimportant episode in the private life of a professional golfer to point out that it's nobody's business?

The news ended with the report that Woods had run into a fire hydrant outside his Windermere, Fla., home and has decided not to play in his own tournament because of minor injuries suffered. That should be a wrap.

Instead, enter the "experts," thousands of whom must reside in an underground bunker near the television studios -- either awaiting the next calamity or, perhaps, zipping out releases to newsrooms suggesting fresh story angles.

I get a dozen a day: "If you're thinking of writing about Such-and-Such, you might be interested in talking to So-and-So."

Thus, crisis-management experts are filling airtime, yakking about what Woods should do to salvage his public image. The rumors, after all, could be true!

Pssst: He might have been having an affair. Pssst: His wife might have smashed the window in anger rather than trying to get him out of the car. Pssst: His (alleged) mistress . . .

You see, Woods, the richest athlete on Planet Earth, has had an idyllic image and now it's been tarnished by -- what? Innuendo and whispers by that scurrilous wormtongue, Anonymous.

Among the many less-than-brilliant observations made the past few days is that Americans will forgive almost anything if people will just fess up. The implication is that Tiger will be forgiven his transgressions, whatever they are, if he'll just tell us the salacious details!

For God's sake, Tiger, tell us or we'll have to get back to our own pedestrian lives. Or, heaven forbid, focus on the prospect of 30,000 more American troops being sent to Afghanistan.

The notion that Woods owes America an explanation is based only on the fact that he is a celebrity. Meaning, some percentage of Americans worship him, or at least his amazing talent, and thus feel entitled to scrutinize his private life. His enormous success -- 71 PGA Tour victories, including 14 major championships and a billion in earnings from winnings and product endorsements -- makes him a sort of public endowment from which gawkers expect dividends.

Celebrity-obsession is cut from the same cloth as identity politics. Tiger is not one of us, but he is of us -- one of those unique characters who make us feel good about ourselves. He's the American Dream personified, who grew up in our living rooms, breaking records and hearts along the way.

We boosted him to Mount Olympus. How dare he descend and bleed?

Celebrity in America no longer means that one is admired for accomplishment. It means ownership by the masses. The stars may twinkle, but their reflection depends on the upturned gaze of those with dustier feet. As all gladiators know, the people are fickle. Like Caesar, they give a thumbs up or thumbs down in response to their own narcissistic injury. By denying the rumorists entry to his inner sanctum, Woods has invited a gathering of crows.

It gives solace to believe that most Americans don't really think someone's personal problems are any of their concern. Tiger isn't running for public office, after all. He isn't leading a congregation to the moral high ground. He's not trading trust for public funds, except to the extent that people willingly pay to watch him do what no other human can.

Might we think less of him should details confirm the rumors? To each his own. But someone, somewhere along this dark path to lost privacy needs to shout, "No more."

My own fandom, and related golfing motto, can be summed up as follows: I don't care if the little ball goes in the little hole. But Tiger Woods will be my forever-hero if he locks the gate and shows voyeurs the road customarily paved with good intentions.

Kathleen Parker writes for the Washington Post Writers Group.

kathleenparker@washpost.com

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